


The Story Page

by Small_Hobbit



Series: The Marylebone Monthly Illustrated [12]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-01-29 22:37:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12640719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit
Summary: TheMarylebone Monthly Illustratedhas incorporated a short story feature within its publication.





	1. Introduction - the Ocelot

Various members of my staff have been complaining they are unable to enter Anonymous Exchanges, since their style of writing means their authorship would be obvious.  In addition, no-one could guarantee there would be a recipient whose idea of a story would be one such as would inevitably produced by said writers.  This has brought about a certain number of tears, and some loud sulking.  If anyone believes sulking cannot be loud, they have not met the Ferret.  In order to mitigate this, I have agreed we shall publish entries from these contributors in the hope you will enjoy them.


	2. The Bishop - told by the Ferret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for DW's Fan Flashworks Amnesty Challenge, prompts Disguise, Glass and Thief

It is not Mr Holmes’ habit to delegate his work, but even he, a great detective, cannot be in two places at once, which is why on this occasion Dr Watson and I were on our way to meet the bishop at St Saviour’s Church. It had come to Mr Holmes’ attention the clergymen at that church were not as holy as one might wish. There was a quantity of silver plate which belonged to the church, but which had apparently gone missing. The bishop had been informed, but he had wished to meet the clergymen for himself, hoping perhaps that by his presence they might see the error of their ways.

Mr Holmes had not been happy when he had learnt this. However, he had been forced to wait for an expected telegram, and had therefore asked the doctor to meet the bishop, and provide such assistance as was possible. I was accompanying the doctor, since I was small enough to travel without being seen. There was also the possibility my own, not inconsiderable, talents, could prove useful.

We had met the bishop at the main church door. To be exact, Dr Watson met the bishop, I was not introduced. The bishop expressed his surprise none of the clergy were there to greet him, for he had written to them, announcing his intention of visiting. However, there was the sound of someone moving around in the vestry, so the bishop and Dr Watson went to see whether the clergymen were there.

They were indeed. One was standing behind the door, and, as soon as the doctor entered the vestry they hit him on the head, and he fell to the floor. The bishop spun round and began to appeal to his assailants, but they laughed and ignored his words. I jumped out of the doctor’s coat pocket and went to hide in the shadows. Whilst I could have tackled one of the clergymen, two would be hard for me, and I did not think the bishop, who was clearly a man of peace, would be of any help.

I had hoped they would content themselves with tying the bishop up, but one of them hit him hard in the stomach, and then punched him in the face, making his nose bleed. They then spoke to him with words totally unbecoming from a clergyman. Now, I am not saying a vicar should never swear, for I am sure if one were to hit his thumb with a hammer he might well utter a profanity, but the words they used were beyond the pale. I hope, when they go to hell, the demons wash their mouths out with soap every day.

Once they had tied up both the doctor and the bishop, the two men departed, saying they would leave the captives where they were for Revd Stephens to do with them as he wished.

The uglier of the two said, “It’ll be a nice surprise for him to find them trussed up ready.”

The second, almost as ugly, one said, “Yeah, Stephens was going to get Coleman to deal with them, when he finished his round. He wouldn’t do it himself.”

I had to clamp my jaws together very firmly to stop myself chittering in anger.

Once they had left, I realised not only were they ugly, but they weren’t very efficient thugs either. Dr Watson groaned and sat up. He called me over to bite through the ropes tying his hands together, and once I had done that he finished releasing himself and went to help the bishop.

As he was doing so, we heard someone else coming into the church.

“That will be Revd Stephens,” the bishop said. “I rather hope he’s on his own.”

“I don’t think it would be wise to find out,” Dr Watson replied. “We can go out through the side door. But I think, your grace, it might be better if we could disguise you a little.”

The bishop was about to object, but then he felt his nose and looked at the blood on his hand. Reluctantly he nodded. “What do you propose?”

“I have an idea,” the doctor said. He passed the bishop his handkerchief. “Use this to wipe the blood off your face. There’s a small looking glass in the corner, so you can see if you’ve got it all off. And then I’ll show you what I have in mind.”

They would need a few minutes to prepare, so it was up to me to provide the delaying tactics. From what the other two clergymen had said, I had understood Stephens would not attack the bishop on his own. It was therefore essential to convince him the bishop was still waiting for his priests to arrive.

I took the bishop’s mitre and scrambled up the rood screen, which separated the choir from the main part of the church. It was just the right height that if a bishop were walking up and down behind the screen, all that would be seen was his mitre. And therefore Stephens, seeing the mitre making its way along the screen would assume the bishop was underneath it, rather than the truth, which was a ferret was inside the mitre.

I heard the sound of the outside door quietly closing, so dropped down and departed, having left the bishop’s mitre sitting, like a tea cosy, in one of the choir pews.

When I joined the doctor I was most impressed with his plan. The bishop was of a similar height and build to Mr Holmes, and the doctor had found a top hat in the vestry, which, together with the bishop’s plain dark cape, meant there was sufficient similarity a passerby might take the bishop to be Mr Holmes. Most people see what they expect to see, and someone seeing Dr Watson, and a taller, thinner man with him, would assume it was indeed Sherlock Holmes.

We caught a cab back to Baker Street. When Mrs Hudson opened the door she had a good look at the bishop, but she is so used to Mr Holmes assuming disguises she didn’t seem very perturbed. Once the bishop and the doctor had gone up to 221B I heard her say, “No, that disguise wasn’t very good at all, it can’t have been Mr Holmes.”

The bishop was further saddened to hear from Mr Holmes the telegram he had been expecting had confirmed this was not the first church the thieves had targeted. He agreed the matter needed to be dealt with by the police, and when Inspector Lestrade arrived shortly afterwards, the bishop provided full details of his assault.

I was only sorry there was but one witness to my role as acting bishop. Maybe one day I shall have the opportunity to reprise it.


	3. Twenty-Four Hours - told by Mouselet

My story begins shortly after lunch. It hadn’t been a particularly interesting lunch, because the Doctor had gone to his club, and Mr Holmes was engrossed in consulting his Bradshaw’s, and making copious notes. On those occasions Mrs Hudson provides a cold meal, because apparently there’s no point in heating food up just to let it go cold. I am not sure what would happen if Mr Holmes was hoping for a proper lunch, but since he never has that is probably irrelevant.

Anyway, by the time the story begins, some of the food has been eaten, there are very boring crumbs on Mr Holmes’ plate, and the notes are strewn across the floor. I heard someone banging very hard on the front door. However, Mr Holmes ignored the noise. A minute later Aggie came running upstairs and straight into the rooms without knocking. Even Mr Holmes was surprised, for Aggie is new and very shy.

“Please, Mr Holmes,” Aggie gasped, “Mrs Hudson says you’re to come downstairs ‘Right Now!’”

Mr Holmes hurried downstairs and shortly afterwards I could hear him coming back although it sounded as though he wasn’t on his own. Indeed he wasn’t. To my horror, he was assisting my gallant inspector into the room. He had been attacked, and there was blood on his face. I found myself trembling in fright.

There was another man, who I didn’t recognise, also helping my inspector. Between him and Mr Holmes they got him onto the sofa.

Mrs Hudson, who had followed them up the stairs, said, “I’ll go and get some hot water and towels.”

“Thank you,” Mr Holmes said. Then he turned to Aggie, “Take a cab to Dr Watson’s club, tell the cabbie to wait, find Dr Watson and come back here as quickly as you can.”

“Yes, Mr Holmes.”

The other man explained he had found my poor dear inspector lying on the ground. He had wanted to take him to hospital, but my inspector had insisted he be brought to us. Which is what the man had done. My Holmes asked him some other questions, but other than telling him where he had found the inspector he knew nothing about how he came to be there.

By the time the man left, my inspector had recovered a little. He reached inside his coat pocket and gave Mr Holmes some papers. Mr Holmes looked at them and grunted, but at that point Mrs Hudson returned with the hot water and towels. My inspector gallantly tried to insist Mr Holmes leave him and do something with the papers, but Mr Holmes said it was more important to treat his injuries. And quite right too.

Fortunately Dr Watson arrived soon after that. He looked at my inspector and said, “It would be better if you were lying down properly, Hopkins. Holmes, can we use your bed?”

“Of course. Let me give you a hand.”

Between the two of them they more or less carried the poor man into Mr Holmes room and laid him on the bed. Knowing the state of Mr Holmes’ room, I decided it would be wiser if I didn’t follow them inside, but watched through the doorway until Mr Holmes came back out and shut the door.

Mr Holmes then started to read through the papers my inspector had given him and began making notes. After a while Mrs Hudson brought the tea tray up, and shortly after that the Doctor came out of Mr Holmes’ bedroom and poured himself a cup of tea.

“How is Hopkins?” Mr Holmes asked.

“I’ve given him something to help him sleep,” the Doctor replied. “He should recover fully in a few days’ time. Fortunately the head wound wasn’t as bad as it first looked. It would be best if he be left to sleep in your bed for the moment; with your help we can move him onto the sofa later.”

“No need. I doubt I shall be getting much sleep tonight, and if I do grab a few hours the sofa will suit me perfectly well. I shall be going out shortly and have no idea when I shall be back.”

“Do you need me to accompany you?”

“Thank you, Watson, but I think you would be better employed for the moment keeping an eye on Hopkins. If I find I do have need of you, I will send word.”

My inspector continued to sleep for the next few hours. I peeped into the room whenever Dr Watson went in to check his patient. I could see he had a bandage around his head, and his poor face was as pale as the bandage. (The Ocelot says it is not clear whether I mean Inspector Hopkins or Dr Watson. Obviously Dr Watson was not bandaged!)

Mrs Hudson brought supper up for the Doctor and asked whether ‘the poor man’ (she meant my inspector) would be wanting something. The Doctor said he might have some soup when he woke and he would call down for it. Shortly after the Doctor had finished eating his supper we heard the sound of movement from the bedroom. (I should point out how considerate my inspector is – had it been Mr Holmes he would have woken whilst the Doctor was still eating and dragged him from his food.)

The Doctor went to see him and I heard him raise his voice. At first I was worried things had taken a turn for the worse, but it turned out the Doctor was insisting the inspector stay in bed. Then when the Doctor came out to call for the soup we heard the bed creak, and peaking round the door I saw my inspector put a foot on the floor.

The Doctor saw him too, and called out loudly, “Hopkins, I told you to stay in bed!”

Then, when Mrs Hudson brought the soup up, she went into the bedroom and said firmly, “Mr Hopkins, this is a respectable establishment, and I do not wish to find you have ignored Dr Watson’s instructions and have collapsed on my floor. I have quite enough to cope with given the number of items Mr Holmes leaves lying around, without having fallen inspectors cluttering up the place as well.”

I am not entirely sure I quite followed Mrs Hudson’s reasoning, and from the look of puzzlement on the Doctor’s face I don’t think he could either, but it did the trick, and my inspector promised to stay in bed until such time as he was properly released.

After a while Dr Watson went to bed. I assumed this meant he was not worried about my inspector, and he knew he would not be moving without permission. However, I wasn’t entirely sure and decided I would spend the night on a shelf in Mr Holmes’ room in case anything happened. Aemelia very kindly said she would keep me company, so we settled in a used coffee cup for the night.

Mr Holmes returned at some point in the night. We were poised to leave if he came into his room, but he didn’t even open the door. We could hear him moving around, but then he stopped and all was quiet again.

The next thing we heard was Dr Watson coming downstairs, saying “Oh really, Holmes,” and opening the window. Knowing the Doctor would certainly come into the bedroom Aemelia and I made our escape, she departing into the wainscoting, and I to my favourite spot by the mantelpiece.

I had hoped to watch as the Doctor checked on my inspector, but he shut the bedroom door. Probably something to do with the tobacco smoke which was still hanging around despite the open window.

Shortly afterwards there was a knock on the door and Aggie came in. “Mrs Hudson would like to know if you were wanting breakfast yet,” she said.

“No!” Mr Holmes replied, rather abruptly.

Dr Watson came out of the bedroom and said, “Aggie, please tell Mrs Hudson I would most certainly like some breakfast, and if she could make Inspector Hopkins a soft-boiled egg and some toast that would be greatly appreciated. Oh, and as Mr Holmes doesn’t want anything, she’d better do some extra toast as well.”

Everyone knew Mr Holmes might not eat a proper breakfast, but he would wander round the room eating slices of toast thickly spread with marmalade or jam. I liked those breakfasts, because he would inevitably wave the toast as he was talking and bits would fall off.

Whilst Mrs Hudson cooked breakfast, the doctor helped my inspector to get up and he appeared wearing one of Mr Holmes’ dressing gowns. He still had a bandage round his head, but he was no longer quite as pale as the bandage, which I took to be a good sign.

Everyone ate their breakfast, and I helped out as necessary. Mr Holmes explained his plan and my inspector said he would get dressed and come with him.

I was horrified, but Mr Holmes said, “Lestrade will arrive shortly and we should be able to manage between us. Besides which, Hopkins, the intention is we blend in with those around us and your bandage will make you stand out.”

My inspector put his hand to his head and Dr Watson said, “And before you say anything, no, you are not removing the bandage.”

Fortunately, Inspector Lestrade came soon afterwards, and he and Mr Holmes then departed. Dr Watson went out for a while later on, but Aggie and Mrs Hudson came up to clean and Mrs Hudson glared very fiercely at my inspector whenever he tried to move from his armchair, so in the end he stopped trying.

After a while, Dr Watson returned and asked Mrs Hudson if she could provide luncheon for four. This was a good sign and it wasn’t long before Mr Holmes and Inspector Lestrade also returned. It would appear they had captured the people they were after, two of whom had been charged with, amongst other things ‘assaulting a police officer’.

Lunch was an excellent meal. It included apple pie, which is my inspector’s favourite dessert. And thus, in the course of twenty-four hours, my inspector has been injured, treated, the men who attacked him have been caught, and we have had a delicious pudding.


	4. Attributes Not Available To Most Men - told by The Ocelot

London was blanketed in fog and for many of the city’s inhabitants this was causing a problem. For a feline such as myself the difficulties were not as extreme, but nevertheless the fog was distorting the smells. I was, however, managing better than my two human companions, one of whom was alternately coughing and swearing.

“Really, Watson, I said you could stay in the warm,” Sherlock Holmes said. “This weather is not aiding your recovery at all.”

“It’s not that much of a problem,” Dr Watson coughed, before uttering a sharp ‘ouch’ and an expletive whose nature I will not include here, since this is a family publication. He managed to stop before walking into the tree, but had failed to see the overhanging branch which had hit him in the face.

I waited whilst the doctor got his breath back and Holmes untangled his umbrella. Neither the doctor nor I were entirely sure why Holmes had brought the umbrella, but he had been adamant it would come in useful. As it was, it seemed to add to the problems of negotiating the street when one couldn’t see as far as the length of an umbrella.

At least the lack of vision meant I was able to accompany Holmes and Watson without raising the suspicion of anyone who we passed. I had no trouble in avoiding the pedestrians, who were forced to walk at less than half their normal pace, and they had no inkling I was there.

When we finally reached our destination Dr Watson was clearly regretting his decision to accompany us. Ordinarily he would have been able to take a cab back to Baker Street when we had finished our mission, but with the weather cabs were few and far between, and there was as much likelihood of being run over by one as hailing it. However, there was nothing he could do about it now, so, with a final cough and another expletive (Holmes had managed to hit him with the umbrella), he joined us as we entered the building.

Holmes had quietly opened the door, and we slid inside, the fog trying to make its own way in too, as it dispersed along the dark corridor. I could make out a set of stairs going down into what smelt like some sort of workshop and a further set heading upwards and from where I could smell tobacco smoke and just make out men’s voices.

We started up the stairs, Holmes grabbing the metal handrail to use as a guide through the dark, with Watson close behind him. I padded silently up the other side of the stairs, alert for any movement from above.

As we reached the top of the stairs a door opened and two men came out. For a moment I thought they would choose to come our way. Fortunately not much light was shed from either the open doorway, or the oil lamp one of the men was carrying and Holmes and Watson were able to keep in the shadows. The men took a further set of stairs which led to the floor above.

Once we were sure they were out of the way, Holmes cautiously opened the door to the room they had come out of. One man was still in the room, and he swung round to look at us as we entered. Our appearance clearly startled him, for he remained silent for a few seconds, which gave Holmes sufficient time to cross the room and put a gloved hand over his mouth to prevent him shouting for help.

Holmes then proceeded to tie the man to his chair. The man tried to struggle and looked as if he was still thinking of trying to yell, but I came over and sat in front of him, breathing the sardines I’d eaten earlier in his face, which made him hurriedly shut his mouth, thus giving Holmes time to gag him.

Meanwhile, Dr Watson had seen another man, who I took to be the watchman, who was lying on the floor groaning. He hurried over to him and gave him such assistance as he could.

Holmes searched through the papers which were strewn on the table, and with a grunt of satisfaction, took up some of them, which he stowed in the inside pocket of his overcoat. He then walked back out of the room, saying he would check if our presence had been discovered, and I followed him out.

Turning to me he said, “I had planned to take the documents and leave as quickly as possible. But quite rightly Watson won’t desert the watchman, so we must take him with us. I shall tell Watson to go first and I will delay the others as long as I can.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” I said. “Can you open that window? And I shall need you to do something with your umbrella.”

A few minutes later Holmes and Watson were helping the watchman down the stairs. Fortunately he was able to walk with some assistance; it would have been more difficult if they had been forced to carry him.

They could not fail to make a noise as they descended the stairs, and as expected the two men heard and came running down to find out what was happening. However, with the window open the fog had entered the passageway and stairs and the visibility was quickly reduced. As they turned onto the passage from the stairs I gave a mournful growl.

“What was that?” one asked.

“Dunno. Ignore it,” the other ordered.

“It could be a ghost.”

“Don’t be stupid. It’s some sort of decoy.”

I gave a second growl, and the first man stopped, clearly not intending to go any further. His companion, obviously more concerned with what was happening than any potential supernatural manifestations, pushed open the door to the room at the end of the passage. Holmes’ open umbrella, which he had perched on top of the door, fell onto the man, who gave a squawk. It was sufficient to send the first man scrabbling back upstairs again.

Feeling I had given Holmes and Watson sufficient time to get a reasonable head start, I made my way back downstairs and out into the street. I could see a few people moving around in the fog, and my sense of smell soon identified the three I was seeking. I quickly caught up with them and we began the journey back to Baker Street.

We left the watchman in the care of a local publican, who knew him and promised to make sure he got home safely once the fog had lifted.

Leaving the public house, Watson began to walk in the wrong direction. I gave a soft growl and he stopped, saying, “It’s no good, this fog has totally disorientated me.”

“I can’t say I’m much better,” Holmes admitted.

“In which case,” I said, “may I suggest you both place a hand on my back and I will walk between you and act as your guide.”

They followed my advice and we made it safely back to Baker Street. The following day Holmes passed the papers to Inspector Bradstreet, who was very grateful to receive them, and carefully didn’t enquire where they had come from.

As Bradstreet was departing he said to Holmes, “I’m amazed you managed to get out and back safely last night, given the pea-souper we were experiencing. You must have some form of sixth sense.”

“Let’s just say I am able to rely on attributes not available to most men,” Holmes replied.


	5. Not What It Looks Like - told by the Sloth

Being sub-editor on the  _Marylebone Monthly Illustrated_  keeps me busy most of the time.  We do not have the pressure experienced by our sister daily papers, but there are a steady stream of items which cross my desk: news reports which have happened within our locality; forthcoming events in our fair city which may be of interest to our readers; the Ferret’s rather more lurid additions to our classified announcements.

It also provides a useful source of information for Mr Holmes, being a catalogue of entries which have not been deemed of sufficient interest to merit the attention of the denizens of Fleet Street.  It was one such entry that had currently caught my attention – the opening of a sweetshop in one of our back streets.  Of itself that would have been of little interest – there were any number of such small shops dotted around our capital which were found in equally out of the way places, but this was the third shop which had been opened in as many months, following that of a greengrocer and an ironmonger.

Most small shops in our neighbourhood have been open for many years, being passed down from father to son, or sold by the widow as a going concern where the children were daughters who had married into other trades.  So this seemed sufficiently unusual for me to inform Mr Holmes in case it was of interest to him.

He read through the article and said, “Yes, I think it would be worth checking out this sweetshop.  I don’t suppose you fancy accompanying me?”

I had no particular objection, but neither could I see how this could be easily accomplished.  Whilst Mouselet and the Ferret can travel safely in a coat pocket, and the Ocelot is able to walk in similar fashion to a dog, as a sloth this was not as easy.

“I was planning on going as a widow, with her lapdog in her bag,” Holmes explained.

“If the bag is large enough,” I said.  “But I weigh rather more than a lapdog.”

“Fortunately I am rather stronger than the average widow,” Holmes said.

Dr Watson, who had been listening to the conversation, snorted and said something about their landlady’s ability to wield a carpet beater with a fair amount of strength.  Holmes ignored this comment.

Accordingly elderly Miss Holmes and her lapdog went to the sweetshop, where Miss Holmes, in a quavering voice asked for some sweets for her nephew’s children.  She placed the little paper bags in the basket with me, and told me very firmly not to eat them.  There was no chance of that; I am not terrifically fond of sweet things, and these seemed not a little dubious.

From there, we made our way to the greengrocer, who sold us what he described as a swede.  One final shop, the ironmonger, who didn’t have the screwdriver poor Miss Holmes needed to repair her broken lunettes, and we made our way back to Baker Street.

As soon as Holmes was back he removed his bonnet, which he squashed into the bag along with everything else.  He paused on his way upstairs to say to Mrs Hudson, “Can you make use of this swede, do you think?”

She looked at the vegetable and said, “Mr Holmes, surely even you can recognise a turnip when you see one.”

“I was under the impression I could.  But then the greengrocer who sold it to me said it was a swede, so I started to doubt my ability.”

“You, doubt your abilities, surely not,” Mrs Hudson said.  “But I certainly wouldn’t buy my vegetables where the greengrocer didn’t know his swede from his turnip.”

Holmes laughed.  “Well, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the turnip, except possibly a case of identity, so are you able to make use of it?”

“It will go well in tomorrow’s stew and better that than remaining in your rooms for weeks until it goes mouldy.”

Holmes nodded and continued up the stairs.  “So, we have a greengrocer who doesn’t know his produce, an ironmonger who doesn’t have basic items in stock, which just leaves the sweetshop owner.  And for that I think we need the Ferret’s help.”

Fortunately the Ferret turned out to be dozing in front of the fire.  Holmes took one of the packets of sweets out of the bag and instantly the Ferret woke. 

“We’ve just come back from a visit to the new sweetshop the Sloth mentioned,” Holmes said.  “Do you want to try one of these apple bonbons?”

The Ferret trotted over and accepted the little green sweet.  He put it in his mouth and then spat it out almost immediately.  “Blhhh,” he said, sticking his tongue out.  “That was sour.”

“Yes, I rather thought it might be,” Holmes said.

The Ferret glared at Holmes, who took pity on him and passed over a pink and yellow sweet instead.

“Here,” he said, “this one should be all right.”

Gingerly the Ferret licked the outside of the sweet, then nodded and began to suck it happily.

“The nephew who received that packet of sweets would not have been happy,” I said.

“No indeed,” Holmes replied.  “It does prove whatever these shops may be being used for, they are not what they purport to be.”

“And without an alternative source of income they would not manage to stay open,” I agreed.  “They’re not going to have many customers trading like that.”

“But why open three shops with no intention of making money?” Holmes mused.  “One I suppose would be plausible, no-one would question a number of people going in and out of a shop, but three?”

“I can’t answer that,” I said, “but there was one thing which did puzzle me.  When you asked for the sweets, you asked the shopkeeper to suggest the more popular sorts.  Yet all the jars he selected were from the higher shelf.  Surely you would keep the popular varieties on the lower shelf?”

“It’s the same with a chemist’s shop,” Dr Watson added.  He had been listening quietly to our discussion.  “The everyday remedies are always kept on the lower shelves.”

“So maybe the sweetshop owner had something else in the jars on the lower shelf,” Holmes said.  “Did you spot anything else untoward in either of the other shops?”

I thought back.  There was nothing strange, other than the limited amount of stock, in the ironmongers.  However there had been one oddity at the greengrocers.  “I noticed there were a few boxes which still had vegetables in.  I did wonder why the greengrocer hadn’t put them all on the shelves.”

Holmes sat with his fingers steepled under his chin.  Then he said, “I think we have it.  Lestrade mentioned a spate of burglaries last year where the stolen jewellery was never recovered, but a few months later the main stones seemed to reappear in different settings.  The burglaries stopped, but have recently started up again.  I think the original pieces of jewellery are taken to the greengrocer, from there they are transported to the ironmonger to be refashioned, and finally they go for collection to the sweetshop.”

“Surely it would be risky having so many different shops involved,” Dr Watson said.

“Yes, if they were unconnected shops, but these are just fronts for the different staging posts.  It also minimises losses if by chance one of the shops is suspected, because the jewellery is spread between three locations.  Because who would connect three separate tradesmen?”

“Nobody but Sherlock Holmes,” the doctor said.

“And, of course, the Sloth,” Holmes added, “who brought it to my attention in the first place.”

 


	6. Mouselet Plays Her Part

I am as I am sure you are aware, only a small mouse. I have played my part in various tableaux which Mr Holmes has devised, and I have created several outfits for the Ferret to wear. Not to mention sewing up split seams, replacing buttons, and so on, because the Ferret will insist on snacking. But never before have I been asked to play an active part in a case.

***

“This is what will happen, Mouselet,” Mr Holmes said. “You will travel to Grimes Warehouse in my coat pocket. Once I’m admitted to Grimes’ office I will take you out of my pocket and you can slip into his desk drawers and retrieve the ring. I shall keep Grimes occupied while you do that.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if the Ferret came with you?” I asked. It’s the sort of job which the Ferret could do easily, and he is far braver than I am.

“No,” Mr Holmes replied. “He has to go with Dr Watson. Their organ grinder and monkey act have been booked elsewhere.”

Dr Watson groaned – he’s not keen on being an organ grinder. He’s also not very good at it. That would be a rude thing to say, but he knows it’s true and has said so himself. Only a few hours earlier he had said, “Really, Holmes, you know no-one believes I’m a real organ grinder for more than half a minute.” Mr Holmes had waved his hand in an empress fashion.

[ **Ocelot Note:** Mouselet means imperious. She recently learnt Queen Victoria is Empress of India and has got the words muddled.]

“You could always go as the monkey,” the Ferret said. “A tiny monkey would be quite a novelty.” He did a dance to demonstrate what it would look like if a small mouse was pretending to be a monkey.

Aemelia Vole, who was making certain necessary adjustments to the Ferret’s waistcoat, accidentally stuck her needle in him.

“Ouch!” the Ferret complained. “What was that for?”

“Hold still,” Aemilia said. “I need to get the braid in the right place.”

Mr Holmes just smiled at me, and said, “And I’m sure Inspector Hopkins would be very grateful for the help.”

Well, if that was the case, then of course I’d help. My poor inspector had lately been looking very worried, and had hardly spent any time in 221B, so if I could do something to make matters better I would. I should be as brave as my hero.

***

When we arrived at the Warehouse, Mr Holmes spoke very firmly to the man at the door, who led him through to Mr Grimes’ office. When they started talking Mr Holmes made his way to the desk and lifted me out. Nervously I crept into the first drawer and scurried around, but I could find nothing. So I climbed out of that drawer and into the next. (In case you are wondering the two drawers were side by side, not above each other.)

The second drawer was full of lots of little items. There were rubbers, a tobacco patch, some matches, various torn up bits of paper (in fact it was a lot like Mr Holmes’ desk drawer, except the glue hadn’t been upset inside it). And then I found the ring. I wasn’t sure if it was the correct ring, but since it was the only one, I took hold of it, and climbed carefully onto the edge of the desk.

And then, to my horror, I discovered Mr Holmes had moved away from the desk. Mr Grimes was shouting at him and waving his fist. A lesser mouse would have scurried away, but I remained where I was, for I was sure Mr Holmes would rescue me if he had any chance to do so. If I were to leave the desk he wouldn’t know where to look.

Suddenly Mr Grimes walked towards the door, and in doing so spotted me on top of the desk. I swallowed hard, but clearly he didn’t think a mouse was that unusual, or much of a threat. I maintained my position and he ignored me, opening his office door and shouting for one of his men instead.

[ **O/N:** Discerning readers may wonder why Mouselet didn’t at least make some attempt to hide. She was, in fact, sitting on the ring to prevent Grimes from seeing it.]

Mr Holmes took advantage of the distraction to pick me up and put me safely in his coat pocket. He then left the office saying, “Very well, Grimes, I will leave, for now.”

By the time we got back to 221B Baker Street I was so tired I fell asleep in Mr Holmes’ Persian slipper. Not, I hasten to add, the one he keeps his tobacco in, for that would be most unpleasant, but the other one, which for some reason was sitting on the mantelpiece. I don’t know why it was there, but both Aemelia and I agree it does make a very good bed.

I woke up when I heard a knock on the door and Dr Watson call out, “Come in!”

I was very pleased to see it was my dear inspector who had entered.

Mr Holmes said, “Take a seat, my dear fellow, I have some good news for you. But first let us have some tea.”

It is extremely provoking of Mr Holmes to delay making important announcements on the pretext of providing food and drink. Especially so because he is not generally particularly interested in such matters at other times.

Dr Watson had already called downstairs to ask Mrs Hudson to bring up another cup with the tea tray, and it was not long before she arrived, carrying the tray which contained not only the teapot, but also a plate of fresh scones and jam. I forgave Mr Holmes for the delay, for there were sure to be crumbs.

The sweetest of inspectors had already eaten one of the scones, and drunk almost a whole cup of tea, when he said, “So what is the good news you have for me, Mr Holmes?”

Mr Holmes took the ring, the one I had found, out of his pocket and showed it to my inspector, who said, “Oh, thank you! However did you manage to retrieve it?”

“I had a little assistance from a friend.”

“Do please thank them from me, and tell them how grateful I am for their help.”

I sighed, and nestled back into the slipper. The most wonderful man was grateful to me for helping him.


	7. The Handkerchief (Aemelia Vole's Tale)

I had not been expecting to contribute to this publication in the nature of an entry in the story page, but the Ocelot has persuaded me I too have a story to tell.

In fact, I had not expected to be playing an active part in any of Mr Holmes’ cases, but as Mouselet was encouraged to leave Baker Street to assist her beloved inspector, I too was persuaded to help my favourite inspector. At this junction I should make it clear that whilst Mouselet’s fondness for Inspector Hopkins is well known, he strikes me as still quite a young man, whereas Inspector Lestrade is a more mature gentleman, and to me the height of perfection. I must add that Mouselet and I are not in disagreement over this, there are no arguments between us, and we have spent many a happy hour praising our respective favourite.

Where was I? One of the traits of aging is one can easily be side-tracked, although considering the Ferret’s tendency to be distracted by snacks, we are not alone in this.

But to my role: I was quite horrified when Mr Holmes said to me, “Aemelia, your particular talents will be invaluable in this case and I am therefore going to request you leave Baker Street and accompany me.”

I had already heard about the case – there had been some discussion between Mr Holmes and Dr Watson about the involvement of Mrs Hudson and whether it would be dangerous for her.

“I will suggest Mrs Hudson asks Mrs Turner to accompany her,” Mr Holmes had said.

“If you do that she will instantly be suspicious. I think you should tell her and let her make her own decisions,” the doctor replied.

Mr Holmes had demurred, but the doctor had insisted on telling Mrs Hudson it might be dangerous.

“What sort of dangerous?” Mrs Hudson demanded.

“The man is violent and no respecter of people,” Mr Holmes admitted grudgingly. “You may wish to ask Mrs Turner to accompany you.”

“I see. Is there any risk of fire or obnoxious substances?”

“No!” Mr Holmes looked quite surprised at the question. Nobody else did.

“And what am I supposed to do?”

“Deliver a small packet to an address in Whitechapel. You will not need to enter the house, simply knock on the door and hand the packet over.”

“When?”

“Two days’ time. That will give us long enough to prepare the packet.”

That had been in the morning. In the afternoon Mr Holmes made his request of me. I swallowed hard, but Mouselet was encouraging and Dr Watson assured me I would not need to leave his coat pocket, and so, to help the inspector who had rescued me, I agreed.

The first task was to embroider certain flowers on the corner of three lady’s handkerchiefs. Mouselet assisted me because the pattern was detailed. Whilst the stem and leaves of each flower were identical the flowers contained a code based on colour and type. In addition, there was a fourth handkerchief which just had stems and leaves.

The three flowery handkerchiefs were parcelled up and Mrs Hudson duly arrived to collect the packet. She was accompanied by three other landladies. Mr Holmes expressed his surprise.

“We are going to a mission nearby,” Mrs Hudson said. “We have a collection of clothes for children in need.”

One of the ladies opened her bag to demonstrate. It also contained a poker.

“Ah,” he said. “Do you all carry similar accessories?”

“Of course.” Mrs Hudson waved her rolling pin.

Mr Holmes gave a bark of laughter. “Then have a good day, ladies.”

They departed and in the afternoon Mrs Hudson reported the packet had been safely delivered. The following morning Dr Watson put me in his coat pocket together with my sewing kit and a large selection of embroidery threads.

We took a cab and then walked to a square where Dr Watson found a bench to sit on. Ordinarily I would have dozed, but I must admit to being rather excited at what was to come. I had been told that it was possible nothing would happen, which would have been rather an antic-climax after all our preparation. I was beginning to think this was the case when Mr Holmes appeared.

“The game is afoot,” he said.

He drew a rough sketch of the flowers he required, noting the colours. I sewed the pattern on the fourth handkerchief as quickly as I could. Ordinarily I would have been displeased with my work for the stitching was irregular and lacked any sense of precision. But the colours and shapes were all correct and I had remembered the designs from the previous handkerchiefs, so I had a template in my head I could work from. As soon as I had finished I informed Mr Holmes the handkerchief was ready.

“Thank you, Aemelia,” he said. “Watson, you will have to do it. We cannot risk my being recognised.”

“Of course, Holmes,” the doctor replied. “Don’t worry, Aemelia, you will be quite safe.”

The doctor walked down one of the paths and when we approached two ladies, one young and very pale, the other a complete harridan whose expression resembled Mrs Hudson’s ‘even a bottle of gin is not going to make up for this’ look.

Dr Watson dropped the handkerchief and a few seconds later the young lady picked it up.

“How careless of me,” she said. “It’s one of my new handkerchiefs. I must have dropped it on the way. See!”

She showed it to her companion who gave it a glace. “You should be more careful.”

The young lady continued to look at the handkerchief before saying, “I should have been sorry to have lost it.”

Mr Holmes plan had worked perfectly. At a casual glance the latest handkerchief could have been mistaken for one of the others, but the young lady had read the message.

We completed our walk, Dr Watson being sure not to hurry, so that he remained simply a gentleman out for a stroll. Inspector Lestrade was awaiting our return. The doctor nodded and the inspector gave orders to his men.

That evening there was a short report in the papers which told of the rescue of a young lady from a group of kidnappers. Dr Watson read it out and then said, “There will be more in tomorrow’s papers.”

“Indeed,” Mr Holmes replied. “But sadly, Aemelia’s contribution will not be recognised.”

The Ocelot was listening and said, “Perhaps Aemelia could write this for the _Marylebone Monthly Illustrated_.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Mr Holmes said, “Of course she should.”


End file.
